A Meal

You offer me хлеб, meaning breadbut denser. There is a gnawing of teeth. We spread butter and jam. The cousins of your grandmother are ghosts now, dead because there was no wheat in the Ukraine. Here there are fieldsof grain, and shelves of sweet things. Your grandmother offers me мясо.I know this word means meat,because when a person speaks ittheir jaw opens wide and their teeth are bared,ready to strike into a piece of flesh.

Your uncle offers me водка. A clear liquid is poured into my glass. The wordhe slurred, vodka, is barely distinguishablein my ears from вода, meaning water.The к, then, must be the poison in the water.A toast is made. I drink the glass in one gulp.All toasts are for the dead. All meals are for the living.

Ben is the author of the nonfiction zine, Punk in NYC’s Lower East Side 1981-1991 (Microcosm Publishing, 2014), and the poetry chapbook, The Men Who Work Under The Ground (Keep This Bag Away From Children, 2012). His writing has appeared in publications such as The Rumpus, The Nervous Breakdown, and Fairy Tale Review.

Dust

There she was: her left foot stood on top of her right. The frayed ends of her red flannel shirt dusted the tops of her thighs as she watched the truck disappear among the dust clouds from the gravel driveway. The crackling rocks under the tires were a rumbling thunder that echoed in her stomach. As the sun finally peaked its core past the clouds and into her eyes, she squinted away remnants of mica and salt.

She bent down to the ground, her weight on her right foot, to grab a chunk of the broken driveway with her left hand. The gravel felt sharp and hot as she fingered for a rock as big as her fist.

Breaking her stork-like balance, she stepped back with her left foot, wound up her arm and threw the mass with her entire past towards his truck as it evaporated into the dusty abyss. All she heard were the distant thunder from the worn tires; or was it her crackling pulse that pounded into her ears?

Her throw threw her a couple of steps forward, right onto the outskirts of the dust trail. Panting, she walked backwards into the dewy grass, her gaze followed the silver truck as it disappeared into the silver dust.

Her feet planted into the grass, drops of dew left her feet covered with sun droplets. The quenched feeling underneath her bare feet crept up her legs, pinched her pelvis, flipped around her gut, squeezed her lungs, punched through her heart, and finally climbed up her throat as she exhaled for the last time, “Bye.”

The Little Green Frog

One day a young frog found an old, mangy dog asleep in the shade of a tree. “What’s this?” asked the frog. “A mighty mean dog? One of these I never thought that I’d see. I’ve jumped lily pad ponds and lumpy tree logs, but before this my life has been meek. To jump over a dog,” said the little green frog, “now this is the adventure I seek."“Look at me!” squealed the frog as he leapt over the dog, his legs pushing him up through the air. “They’re not very fierce,” sang the frog as he soared, “just tangles of legs, teeth, and hair." "How’s that?” asked the frog, landing next to the dog, his bravado and bravery made plain. “He’s rather quite fun, this furry brown one. Now, to move on or shall I remain?”“That’s quite sprightly a dance,” called a bird from his branch, “though I’d not wake him up were I you. The last one who tried, he quite nearly died, were it not for last second rescue.”“But what trouble could come,” asked the tiny green one, “if he woke and decided to chase?”“Though he may appear old, he’s still swift and bold. I’m not certain that you could keep pace.”“This ragamuffin? Surely, you’re bluffin! I’m young, I’m fast, and I’m strong. Can’t keep the pace? It’s not even a race! Just watch and I’ll prove you wrong.”“My willful young friend, don’t let this be your end! His temper is quite tied to his rest. Turn around and go home. Leave this old dog alone. Trust me, it’s all for the best.”But the frog wouldn’t listen; he was now on a mission. He drew back and jumped with all of his might. And that silly young frog, he woke up the dog, who gobbled him up in one bite.

no Comfort Inn suite,just a vacant bedroomat a lakehouse party, complete with rumpled sheetsand worn pillows.still no candles;the moon was even pullingit's cloud duvet over its eyesto sleep away the next seventy seconds.

the stars may have peekedthrough slanted blindsand spotlighteda nightstand with a blue solo cup,half-full of keg beer;while a half-smokedjoint streams silver wispsof smoke around us:half-drunk, half-patient,and half in love.

I'm an adult Hello Kitty addict and I'm not alone

There's something so sexy about her little yellow nose, that plush bow, those beady eyes.I could devour your marshmallow figure and lick your whiskers one by one.Your mouthless face somehow still smooches and whispers, "Come hither, baby boy."Dreaming of you fills me with pink and red butterflies and heavy sighs.Hello Kitty, I'm on my knees. Will you make me your big, bad boy toy?It could be fun and you could say I was the one who was won.

I have competition, I know. It's because you're a squat feline goddess.My rivals throw pebbles at your window, cook you three courses.They come lance in hand, riding on galloping white horses.We dream of you simultaneously; isn't that the oddest?We hate each other and yet we are in syncbecause of you, my chubby housecat drug,my coochie-coo love bug.

Ronnie and Marty

I took a slow take of the carnage: bodies and blood everywhere. It was like a scene from a zombie movie. My hands were shaking but I managed to slide another clip into the nine millimeter. Ronnie stood there dazed, the big, heavy .45 hanging by her side, pulling her shoulder down. She emptied the clip in less than a minute only moments ago and my ears were still ringing.

“Ronnie, honey, take my gun, give me yours.” I pulled her close, gave her a quick hug and loaded her gun. I could see she didn't hear me. Her ears were ringing, too, but we'd done this before. It was still a mystery to me, the way she loved that cannon. I have no idea how she squeezed off seven rounds and managed to keep her feet. We traded guns again. Somewhere in the store the sound system was still playing the same soothing samba I heard when we came in. What was it? "The Girl from Ipanema"? Ronnie was still trembling but she held the gun level with both hands as she swept the store, turning a full 360. Then she walked the aisles, looking for anyone who might be moving or hiding. I cleaned out the cash register and looked for the safe, hoping it might be open, but no such luck. “Here, Ronnie, get whatever you need,” I said, holding out some plastic bags. “What's going on out there, anyone moving?”

Odd Balls

The ability to put one’s mind on display is a powerful, psychological tool. When creating art, my goal is to capture viewers and send them somewhere else, somewhere that doesn’t cage one’s imagination or display the mundane. My work allows me to escape the world around me and visually express not only what I feel emotionally, but also what I find interesting and even fear.

My inspiration is found in the range of human response and emotion. Human behavior is such a broad and captivating topic because every human in existence is different in some way. The decisions that one makes can affect him and those around him indefinitely.Crime, judgment and corruption are downfalls brought upon humanity from the mind of man alone. Government and religion are two creations that are based entirely upon a planned belief system; Good vs. Bad, morality. My work explores the scandals and secrets that exist inside the very structure meant to keep our world in order. This idea existed not only in the historical past, but here in the present-day Midwest.Powerful subject matter requires powerful imagery. Utilizing pen and ink with splashes of vivid color, I find satisfaction in making bold artwork. Expressing political and profound content can be informative and at times, quite shocking. I use loose yet tedious detail partnered with strong, powerful mark making in an attempt to pull a viewer into the composition and not let go until every aspect of the image has been explored. Explosive color combined with graphic, outlined imagery assists concept in a journey to become engrained in the memory, appearing again only in the darkest corners of our dreams.I find illustrating the strange extremely therapeutic. I am given freedom to express my ideas and beliefs regardless of what is best for one to behold. Many long hours have passed working in what seems to only be minutes. I get lost in my work; that is what I wish for an audience as well.

Camron Johnson is an illustrator based in Normal, Illinois attending Illinois State University pursuing a B.s. in Studio Drawing. Specializing in traditional pen & Ink/ watercolor, he is on-track for a career in book, editorial and freelance illustration. As a story-teller, he enjoys creating many different styles of art that will leave a viewer tickled, twisted and at times... terrified. He hopes to one day be a published illustrator and have his work in the hands of future generations, for when it comes to influential literature, there is no book better than those with pictures. You can contact Camron with any inquiries @ cammyj006@yahoo.com

To Touch, To Dream

You are a seal when you sleep—slick and curled and whiskered, tasting salty as the sea.Somewhere the barnacles on wet rock palaces miss you, so they call your name in the night.I reply that you are here, by my side, in my mermaid's embrace, far from the water,but you are never homesick because I, as your true love, am your home now.

Once I feared that you would escape for a long swim, at least a dip every full moon.Once I feared that you only saw me as some kind of fancy fish, forgetting the woman in me.

I never had anything to fear. I always had you to touch and I'll always have you to touch.And to dream. We shall always dream together. We'll dream of scallops and coral and areef full of the beauty we used to know, the beauty before the massive cloud of octopus inkdarkened our small part of the world, the small part we had no choice but to reimagine.

Unsheltered

Spikes do not grow from the ground; the city put them thereto deter you the same way they deter pigeons from shitting.Those metal rods pierce your skin and pierce your pride.You are a pigeon, they say, you are a winged rat.

The rain is cold. The sun too hot.Different days but the same problem:You will not go to the house for "your kind."You are tired of roosting with the rejects.No more flocking to someone else's roof.

Remove the spikes and the rats will run back.But all the rats want is a home, a little home.